Dagger of the Storm
by Tamarallion Arothlin
Summary: One exceptional Shadow Warrior and his comrades will have to become what they hate the most to save the High Elves from annihilation. Set during the upcoming Storm of Chaos campaign. Draft -- please R&R!


          Tamarallion shuddered at the cold touch of the wind and drew his cloak more tighly around himself. _Curse this land, _he thought bitterly. _Curse this land and all its blighted inhabitants. Curse the Phoenix King for setting me on this blasted mission in the first place! And above all, curse the foul Witch King that makes missions like this necessary!_

He sat with his back propped up against one of the tall, dark pines of the Land of Chill, staring into the night sky. The stars were… different… than they had been in Ulthuan. More than their position at this time of year had changed. Seemingly a lifetime ago, he had examined them while on patrol in what remained of his home kingdom of Nagarythe, and they had seemed promising. Inviting, even. Promising a better future and easier times ahead. Now… now, they seemed colder and more distant, as though they were no longer in reach. He could almost hear them laughing at his futile efforts.

          Shaking his head to clear it of such thoughts, Tamarallion drew a dagger from a sheath on his belt. Absentmindedly he tested its edge on the tree behind his back. It was still sharp, of course—weapons forged on the Anvil of Vaul never lost their edge. He examined it more closely, feeling the intricate traceries etched into the hilt, noticing the way the jewel in the pommel caught the pale moonlight and cast slivers of it across the clearing.

          And he remembered… he remembered how he had gotten here, why he had come, and what he had to do…

DAGGER OF THE STORM 

**A story set in the Warhammer Fantasy universe**

**Warhammer and all associated terms are © Games Workshop. No challenge to the status of these copyrights is intended.**

          "You sent for me, my king?"

          Tamarallion watched Finubar the Seafarer, the current Phoenix King of the High Elves of Ulthuan, turn from his contemplation of the sea. "Ah, Tamarallion!" he exclaimed with a genuine smile on his face. "Please, take a seat. Do you wish for something to drink?"

          "No, my liege," Tamar answered, returning Finubar's smile as he stepped inside and sat. "It is too early in the day yet for that."

          "Don't be so sure, my old friend… Oh, and drop the titles. We've known each other for too long for that."

          Tamarallion's smile lessened slightly as he wondered what the king meant by his warning. _Perhaps he has unwelcome news? Maybe a mission? A new host for me to command? Or perhaps some mixture of them?_

Finubar poured himself a goblet of wine from the intricate swan-necked contained that occupied the small table between them. "How are things between you and Ysariel?" he asked. "Are you planning on finalizing things anytime soon?"

          "Not as far as I know," Tamar answered slowly. More suspicion was creeping into his mind. _This isn't like Finubar. He isn't one to dissemble on personal matters unless it has something to do with the matter at hand. Is he planning an assignment that will separate us for a long time?_

"Ah, good. Not that I mean finalizing matters is a bad thing, of course," he added, "but these are turbulent times. Who knows what could happen?"

          Tamar gave a single nod. "Indeed. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of a summons, my king?"

          Laughing, Finubar turned to a chest by his chair and started delving into it. "Your presence is refresing, Tamarallion. After all of those courtiers that will spend hours dissembling on any subject other than the one at hand, your directness is a breath of fresh air." He continued to dig through the contents of the chest. "I know I put it in here… ahh! Here we are!" He pulled out a scroll and handed it to Tamar. "Read this, and tell me what you think."

          Tamar murmured a command to open, and the scroll's seal cracked in two. Hesitantly, he unrolled it and began to read through it. Finubar sat waiting, patiently sipping his wine.

          "That's all?" Tamar asked incredulously as he finished. "Some dispossessed Druchii noble plotting against their twisted pervert king? From what I know, this is hardly earth-shattering news."

          Finubar chuckled. "You may have missed something, Tamarallion. Read the second stanza again."

          Tamar peered back down at the scroll, carefully interpreting the mood and connotation of each of the runes inscribed upon the parchment. He read it again, and then a third time. Finally, he looked up again. "This noble has been around and has been plotting against the throne for over _one thousand _years?" he asked. "Why hasn't one of their foul assassins taken care of him?"

          "An interesting question, is it not?" Finubar asked, grinning. "It is even more interesting to note that he fits all the requisites for the Prophecy of Demise. Except perhaps the army of terrible beasts… and I am sure that he is even now planning to fix that little ommission."

          That tidbit of information caused Tamar's eyes to widen. Briefly, he recalled what he had learned about the Prophecy of Demise. It went something along the lines of 'No blade forged by elf, dwarf or man shall suffer him fear, BUT a first-born son of a noble will come along to dethrone him. He will be learned in the darkest arts and will command an army of terrible beasts.' Or at least something like that. Tamarallion had been busy watching a hawk battling a pack of crows when old Anriron had been covering that material.

          "So," Tamar replied as he handed back the scroll, "this report is telling us that this particular scum may have what it takes to dethrone Malekith. I would be the first to dance on his grave, certainly, but what do we care? One Dark Elf is as bad as another. In fact, he would probably be _worse _if he had the courage to stand up to Malekith and the power to bring him down."

          "Because," Finubar answered, continuing to grin, "if we were to have a contact inside his court… perhaps one of his most trusted advisors… we could anticipate any move he planned against our island. We would be safe and secure from invasion so long as this operative were in place."

          Tamar nodded. "A bit like what the Druchii did to us with Girathon—" He broke off sharply and looked at the Phoenix King. "You don't mean… me?"

          Now it was Finbar's turn to nod. "You have proven loyal to me and skilled in all the necessary arts ever since I knew you, Tamarallion. When I considered this alternative, you were the first one come to mind. You have all the necessary qualities – you are devoted to me and to Ulthuan as a whole, you are a skilled warrior, you are skilled at deception and subterfuge, and…" Finubar grinned "…you hate Dark Elves with a passion. If I'm going to go to the effort to get a councilor at the side of the new Witch King, then I want to be sure he's going to be on _our _side."

          Tamarallion pushed down the images that the Phoenix King's half-joking last statement had brought up – _the smell of burned flesh, the ruins of the village… Aethis' body, lying torn and mangled, an expression of horror fixed on his face… his family, all dead – _and gave Finubar a flat stare. "My loyalty is not at stake here. You know that; I know that. Why would I agree to undertake this mission that would require me to live among the murderers of my land and my family?"

          Finubar's expression hardened slightly in return, and he leaned forward. "You remember your battle against a certain Blood Dragon Vampire Count in the Shadowlands a few years ago?"

          "Yes," Tamar snapped. "How could I forget it, my liege? It is the one shackle that has been holding me to lower command positions." His voice became bitter as he added "Of course, my land of origin does not help matters, either."

          "Most of the elves in my court do not care that you came from Nagarythe!" the Phoenix King asserted.

          "And the power rests in the hands of the few that do," Tamar shot back. "Prince Imrik the Dragonfool, who commands the paltry cavalry of Caledor, has always had a particular grudge against our people. Even Prince Tyrion seems to distrust us to some degree, although his ancestor Anerion the Defender was one of us as well."

          Finubar shook his head. "Now is neither the time nor place for these political debates, and you know it well. The fate of our people is at stake."

          Tamar smoldered for a moment before lowering his eyes. "Yes, my king. I beg forgiveness."

          The king smiled warmly. "There is naught to forgive, Tamarallion. These times are trying on all of us. Now, my answer to your question is two-fold. If you undertake this mission and succeed, you will save the lives of thousands of High Elves. Perhaps even our entire race. Secondly, if you succeed, it shall wipe your record clean of your single great defeat. Not even Imrik the—" Finubar's lips quirked as he remembered Tamar's nickname, "not even Prince Imrik the Dragonlord of Caledor will be able to oppose you. That should satisfy your altruistic side and your self-interest at the same time."

          Tamar grinned. "You know me too well, Finubar. One condition: I choose every last warrior of the team that accompanies me. There must be no weak links."

          "Granted, of course," the Phoenix King said with a wave of his arm. "Choose whomever you want – you must have their permission, of course – and arm yourself however you choose. Simply be ready with your warriors in seven moonrises here in Lothern."

          Tamar nodded one last time and stood. "I shall be off then. Asuryan watch over you, my king."

          Finubar watched the retreating back of his friend, knowing he might never see him again. "And you, my friend," he whispered softly.


End file.
